


mess you made

by schwule



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:33:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5515721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schwule/pseuds/schwule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack’s life hasn’t been very exciting, despite what people may think. Kent might just be the most thrilling thing that’s ever happened to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mess you made

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunfair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunfair/gifts).



> happy swawesome santa! i hope you like it!

Jack peers out the window on the passenger side of Kent’s car and frowns. They've stopped outside a ramshackle two-story house with a boarded-up door and a front yard that resembles a faded miniature meadow, overgrown and flattened by rain and wind. Jack turns to Kent and raises his eyebrows, at a loss and amused by the shrewd smile on Kent’s lips. 

“ _This_ is what you wanted to show me?” 

“Yup.” Kent pulls his keys out of the ignition. “Reilly says it’s haunted.”

“And you believe that?” 

“I don’t believe a thing that comes out of his dumbass mouth,” Kent says. “But you gotta admit it looks creepy.” 

Jack takes another look. “I guess.”

“Wanna go inside?” Kent says, unbuckling his seat belt. “There’s a smashed-open window in the back.”

Jack follows him out of the car and down the gravel path to the backyard. Glass shards and dry leaves crunch under his rubber soles when he climbs through the window. A coat of dust covers most of everything inside, and the floor is littered with empty bottles and cans, the fireplace displaying an impressive heap of cigarette butts that makes the room reek. 

It’s eerie, all the furniture still there. The only things that seem to be missing are the TV - stolen, probably - and a lamp shade, for some reason. There’s a painting of a lighthouse on the far wall, and beside it, a framed picture of the Virgin Mary.

“Do you know who lived here?”

“Some old geezer,” Kent says, running a finger over the top of a heavy-looking chest of drawers. “Apparently his daughter inherited it, but she’s like, some big-shot LA bitch who doesn’t care what happens to it. She hasn't even tried to sell it or anything.” Kent sneers at the the gray dust on the pad of his finger. Wipes it off on the buckled wall paper. “Reilly said the dude died in his bed, but he was basically a shut-in so no one noticed for weeks.”

Kent proceeds into the kitchen, and Jack joins him even though he’s starting to feel twitchy and would rather not go further into the house. 

“So that’s why he became a ghost,” Jack suggests.

Kent opens and closes the cabinet doors above the sink. Jack wishes he would stop touching things. 

“I dunno. Probably,” Kent says, turning on the tap. They both flinch at the loud cough that rattles out of it, and Kent laughs giddily as he lets Jack lead the way back into the hall.

Kent takes a couple steps towards the stairs before stopping so abruptly that Jack walks right into him. Kent turns around, is close enough that their hips almost touch. He tilts his head slightly to the left, smirks, and says, “I dare you to go upstairs.” 

“Bedroom’s upstairs,” Jack says, meeting Kent’s eyes.

Kent’s smile widens, slowly, into a full grin. “You’re not scared, are you?” he says, low and teasing.

Jack rolls his eyes. “Terrified,” he deadpans.

His heart hammers in his chest as he walks up the stairs, but once he’s standing in the doorway to the bedroom, his pulse slows. It’s just a room. A bed frame without a mattress, a night stand, a bookshelf, a mat that’s seen better days. There’s nothing even remotely scary about it.

Kent’s waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, tapping his fingers on the railing, and even though Jack’s been out of sight for a minute at most, Kent smiles as if he’s relieved to see him, and Jack suddenly feels like his legs are too long, his knees too soft, and he has to focus on putting one foot in front of the other so he won't trip and make a total fool of himself.

 

x

 

It’s a dim and soggy November morning, and the bright light from the big canvas screen stings Jack’s eyes. Coach Barter has paused the tape that shows their last game against the Remparts and is waving his arms around, spitting a little as he points out that they need to be more aggressive on the forecheck. Just as he’s about to start the video again, Kent walks through the door, fifteen minutes late and seemingly unfazed by the annoyed glare Barter sends his way.

“Car wouldn’t start”, Kent mumbles. He has pillow marks on his cheek. “Sorry.” He slumps down on a chair diagonally behind Jack, and the room smells like rain for a moment before the usual pubescent odor takes over again.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack watches Kent wriggle out of his coat. Kent notices, and Jack quickly turns his gaze back to the screen. Feels Kent’s eyes boring into the back of his neck, making it prickle. He pointedly doesn’t rub it, but starts sweating through his shirt where his lower back is plastered against his chair.

 

x

 

Ever since Jack convinced Reilly to switch seats with him, the back of the bus has been his and Kent’s. It’s where they take turns playing Zelda on Kent’s well-worn Game Boy, where they cheat at poker, where Jack cuts the laces on Kent’s shoes and pours Skittles into the pockets of his suit jacket while he’s sleeping, and Kent pays back by braiding Jack’s hair when _he’s_ asleep, where Kent stretches out and throws his feet onto Jack’s lap and Jack complains about his socks stinking even when they don’t, where they study for finals and Kent chews on every single pencil he borrows from Jack, where they argue about which NHL team would be the coolest to play for, where they eat the PB &Js that Kent’s billet mom always sends with him on trips, where they stare mutely out the windows on either side of the bus after losing, where Jack has panic attack after panic attack and Kent watches him, wide-eyed, looking like he’s gonna freak out, too, and never says a word when Jack fishes his pills out of his backpack.

 

x

 

Jack’s ear feels spongy, and he rubs his phone against the front of his shirt, wiping off condensation before he snaps it shut and slides it into his pocket.

“You just saw each other, did you have that much to talk about already,” Alicia says, looking up from her magazine as he pads back into the living room.

Jack just shrugs in lieu of trying to think of an excuse for talking to Kent for almost two hours on the second day of their winter break.

 

x

 

Kent’s sigh spills over Jack’s neck as he tips his head onto Jack’s shoulder. His breath is sticky with 7up and vodka and Jack nudges him away only to have him roll his head back right away. His body is heavy and warm against Jack’s side, and Jack’s face is heating up. Every time Kent exhales, he can feel it on his chest, and he’s pretty sure he’ll be sporting a boner in a minute if Kent doesn’t move. Jack tries pushing him off again.

“Let me be,” Kent slurs. “‘m sleepy.”

“How much have you had to drink, man.” 

Kent sighs, again. “Not enough,” he mumbles.

“Not enough for what?”

Kent doesn’t answer. Jack elbows him in the ribs in case he's about to pass out.

“Owww,” Kent says, pouting but finally sitting up.

“Not enough for what,” Jack repeats.

“Oh. Said that out loud.” Kent snorts loudly. Shakes his head. “Nevermind.” 

 

x

 

It amazes Jack, the way Kent moves inside the boards. Quick, nimble, precise. Unpredictable. Everything he does on the ice seems effortless, and Jack would hate him for it if he didn’t know how committed Kent is, how much time and fervor he puts into it, how hard he works. How his thighs shake from exertion when they hit the showers.

Kent’s restless, and he’s as greedy and determined as Jack when he wants something. Won’t stop until he has it. 

Trouble is, getting what you want isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be.

 

x

 

Kent climbs into Jack’s bed, and even though Jack’s lying down, he feels exactly like he’s tipped a chair too far back when Kent leans over him. Kent’s so close that his intentions are obvious, but there’s still a ten-centimeter escape route between their mouths. Enough room to turn it all into a joke.

“Are you...” Jack trails off. Knows that Kent knows what he's asking anyway.

Kent’s eyes go wide. He blinks a few times, then nods. “Yeah,” he breathes out.

“I can’t have a -- I can’t be with --”

“Don’t you think I know that,” Kent says. “We’re in the same fucking boat here.”

He inches closer, and Jack’s heart jumps into his throat. What if I throw up in his mouth, he thinks: it’s the last thought he has before Kent kisses him.

 

When they leave the hotel the next morning, Jack’s lips feel like they’ve been scrubbed with salt, and he can’t stop licking them. The bus ride home after their afternoon game seems to stretch on for a million years. He can’t wait to be alone with Kent again. To kiss him again. Smell him, touch him, have Kent's hands on him again. He's no stranger to longing, but this is different. Is visceral in a way he's never felt before.

 

His life hasn’t been very exciting, despite what people may think. Kent might just be the most thrilling thing that’s ever happened to him.

 

x

 

Kent slaps an ice cold can of Labatt Blue in Jack’s hand, and says, “D’you like my shirt?”

The t-shirt - which he definitely wasn’t wearing five minutes ago, as that one was black and not a garish, bright green with a white four leaf clover and _Kiss me, I’m Irish_ printed on the front - is several sizes too large, and almost makes Kent look scrawny with how its sleeves hang loose around his upper arms and the lower hem reaches for his knees. It doesn’t take away the breadth of his shoulders, though. Or the visible strength in his hands. Or the firm muscle on his forearms. Or the way his veins pop in the balmy kitchen. Not that that has anything to do with whether he looks small or not. It just reminds Jack of how they were cramped together in his bed mere hours ago, and Jack traced those veins with his fingers until Kent whined and moved Jack’s hand to the bulge in his boxers.

Kent catches him looking, now, and the edge of his mouth curls up.

Jack’s beer froths when he cracks it, and he quickly sucks up the foam before it spills over his hand. “You’re not Irish,” he says, smiling back.

Kent wets his lips. “That’s totally beside the point.”

“Hey, Zimmermann,” Flipper shuffles up to them and crooks his arm around Kent’s neck. “You want one of these beauties, too, eh?” He pinches hold of Kent’s shirt and shakes it. “It’s only Saint Patty’s once a year.”

Jack takes a big gulp of beer and laughs. “Maybe later."

 

Once the party catches fire, Jack draws Kent away from the crowd and into a walk-in closet in one of the bedrooms in the off-limits part of the house. They can’t find the light switch, so they resort to making out in the dark. When Jack opens his eyes, he can’t see anything but black: can’t even see Kent’s contours. It magnifies everything, makes him feel like Kent is everywhere, like he’s inside Jack, and when Kent grinds against him, he comes in his jeans.

 

x

 

People begin to notice them sneaking off together, and the rumor mill goes batshit. Every party they go to now, there’s at least one guy asking them to hook him up with their dealer.

Kent laughs it off, tells Jack not to take it so seriously. But he doesn’t know that Jack doesn’t only use his pills for emergencies anymore, and Jack’s worried. What if management catches wind, decides they have to get tested? Kent’s safe, then, but Jack -- he's not taking anything illegal, but he hasn’t kept to his prescribed dosage in months. He doubles it, triples it, quadruples it, can’t even remember how much he’s taken some days. And if they find out about the pills, they’ll find out about why he's taking them, and professional athletes aren't supposed to be weak. Who’d want to draft a mental case? Put their faith in bad news? Invest in someone who can’t go a day without sedating himself? 

 

x

 

Kent curls into Jack as if he wants Jack to cover him, to protect him. Jack knows that feeling all too well. Wraps the comforter around them like a cocoon and pulls Kent into a loose hug. Kent tangles his fingers in Jack’s hair, and then they just lie there, looking at each other, neither of them wanting to ruin the moment with words. 

Kent’s forehead is covered in helmet zits - everyone on the team has them, Jack too - and his nose is splattered with freckles even though it's still winter. Jack touches the pale scar on his chin, touches his cupid’s bow, touches the tiny scabs he always has on his lower lip because it’s always chapped and he always peels away the loose flakes with his teeth. When Kent closes his eyes, Jack touches his lashes, and Kent presses further into him, buries his face into the hollow of his throat.

It’s the softest thing Jack has, being with Kent like this. 

Sometimes he thinks it might’ve been better if he’d never had it in the first place.

If he’d never had it, it couldn’t be taken away from him. 

 

x

 

The pills make his mouth go numb. Flaccid. He wonders if Kent notices it when they kiss.

 

x

 

He lies to Kent. Lies to his parents. Lies to his agent, his billet family, his teammates, his doctors. Lies to the coaches, the GMs, the physical therapist, the reporters. Lies and lies and lies.

Nothing’s ever made him feel as lonely as being a liar.

 

x

 

The final goes to OT, and Jack scores the game-winner off of Kent’s rebound. Kent chucks his helmet and almost topples Jack over giving him a rough peck on the cheek, grinning so wide that his eyes water, and then the rest of the team is all over them, pushing them into each other, and Jack’s got at least three guys ruffling his hair and someone slaps his ass and there are hands patting his back and shoulders and he’s dizzy with adrenaline and his vision’s blurry from sweat and tears but somehow he still knows exactly which hands are Kent’s.

After hoisting the trophy and dealing with media and families and kids wanting autographs, he slips by the locker room to lace his skates off and get his backpack before finding a quiet place to catch his breath. The visitors’ locker room has already been emptied out, so he sits down on one of the benches in there, takes two pills and washes them down with a left-behind bottle of Gatorade. Leans his head against the wall behind him and closes his eyes, waits for his system to slow down. He wishes he could fall asleep right there, sleep through the celebrations. Not that he’s not happy - he is, he knows he is, or he will be, once he’s processed this, it’s just hard to feel it right now - he’s so tired. 

Tired of being watched, judged, measured, compared, admired, hated, analyzed, overhyped, whispered about. Tired of holding himself up. 

A few minutes later, Kent finds him and sinks down beside him. He’s stripped down to his underarmors, cheeks still flushed and hair lank with sweat. 

“You’re the only one I’ve got,” Jack blurts out. He regrets it immediately, feels small and stupid and needy.

Kent leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees and rubs his hands over his face, then parts his fingers to look at Jack. “I’m gonna be on my own, too, you know.” 

“Small comfort,” Jack says glumly.

“Yeah.” Kent frowns as he stands back up. “We should go get cleaned up. Everyone’s waiting for us.”

“What if I can’t,” Jack says: it's the most honest thing he’s said in a long time. 

Kent shakes his head and smiles. “You can do anything, Zimms.”

 

x

 

Kent’s eyes skitter over the ceiling, his chest heaving, lips pinched tight to keep himself quiet. Jack has two fingers inside him and no idea what he’s doing. 

“Should I --”

Kent grabs Jack’s shoulder. “Don’t stop.”

Jack tries moving his fingers differently, tries another angle. Kent keens, digs his nails into Jack’s skin and drags them down his arm. He loves the burn, but he doesn’t know if it’s love, what he feels for Kent. Maybe it’s nothing but a fixation, an obsession. A lifeline. 

 

x

 

He turns his bag upside down and empties his clothes into the dresser in the room he’s been assigned, but when he looks down at the mess off t-shirts and boxers and socks and sweats, he feels nauseous. Pulls everything out and folds it neatly before carefully putting it back, as if smoothing out the wrinkles in his clothes could somehow level him out as well. 

He’s not locked up. Not physically. He can walk out of the rehab center if he wants to. But he’ll always be trapped in his head.

 

x

 

Kent moves to Vegas, and Jack writes text after text to him. Types, reads through, rephrases, reads through, rephrases again. Deletes. Never sends. Still waits for Kent to answer.

 

x

 

Kent hugs Alicia, smiles gratefully when Bob offers him coffee. Brings it with him when he follows Jack to his room. Jack sits down on his bed, and Kent gives him a strange look before seating himself on the chair in front of the desk.

They talk, but Jack doesn’t feel like they’re saying anything, and Kent keeps fiddling with his watch as if it’s not already obvious how little time they have at their disposal before he needs to be at the Centre Bell for tonight’s game.

Once Jack’s finished up his short recap of what he’s been up to during the past eight months (coaching, working out, therapy, reading), the room falls silent.

Kent picks up his coffee, lifts it to take a sip, changes his mind halfway, and puts the mug back down on the desk.

“I don’t know if I can do this without you,” he says, his face crumbling. He doesn’t turn away, doesn’t move, just sits there, jaw tight and eyes flowing over, like he doesn’t care that Jack sees. Like he _wants_ Jack to see.

Jack watches him cry, and it doesn’t make him feel anything. 

“Of course you can,” he says. “You don’t need me. You’ve _never_ needed me.”

Kent’s face stiffens. He stands up, walks over to Jack and grabs his arm, pulls him up off the bed. He doesn’t loosen his grip once Jack’s on his feet, and his breathing has gone shallow and fast. His cheek is hot and wet when Jack touches his palm to it. He wants to apologize, but he's not sure he can make it sound sincere, and if he can’t do that, then what’s the point.

“I compare everyone to you, you know that?” Kent says. “I don’t want to, but I can’t fucking stop. And no one else -- _No._ ” Kent laughs, and it’s an awful laugh, raspy and bitter. “ _No one_ is enough anymore.”

Jack doesn’t know any other way to respond, so he kisses Kent. Kent’s mouth is angry under his, but he opens it up to Jack, and Jack wishes he could go back in time. Find the moment when it started happening. Find it so he could change it. Turn away from it. Save them from it.

He lifts Kent's shirt over his head, and thinks: I wish I had pretended it was all a joke.


End file.
